Losing it, finding it
by louella
Summary: Found yourself just a teeny bit disappointed about the lack of Gene/Alex action in ep 3 of series 2? Hankering back to the sultry looks and unfulfilled longing of ep 2? Then this just might be for you. Please R


**Don't underestimate me, Bolls**

Alex Drake carried her tuna nicoise and coffee to the last empty table in the crowded sandwich bar. She'd been called across town, to Marylebone nick, to question a man who'd been arrested on suspicion of armed robbery but who she thought might also be responsible for a series of residential burglaries on her patch. Turned out to have been a wild goose chase, though; he had alibis for most of the dates in question and, having met him, Alex found he didn't fit the burglar profile anyway.

Oh well, she thought, pouring milk into her coffee. Some you win. And it got her out of the station and to a part of London she'd always liked, so it didn't feel like a completely wasted trip.

She pulled a paperback from her bag, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, and opened it at the bookmark. Children helping a magical lion to solve a problem in his kingdom. She couldn't help but smile at the comparison.

Her nose deep in her book, absently lifting forkfuls of salad to her lips, she didn't notice someone standing opposite her, gesturing at the empty chair. He cleared his throat and she looked up, distracted, to see a tall, dark haired man raising his eyebrows at her. "All right if I join you?" he asked politely. "There are no spare seats."

"What? Oh. Okay." Alex returned to her novel, wanting to continue her journey through the magical universe, but became aware that the stranger kept glancing at her face.

"Excuse me," he smiled as she looked up over the top of the pages. "I don't know you, do I?"

Smiling wryly, Alex shook her head and lowered her eyes once more. The stranger wasn't so easily dismissed, however. "Are you sure? You have a very familiar face."

Sighing, Alex laid her book face down on the table, open at her page. She gave him a quick, searching look. "I'm sure we haven't met," she replied finally, turning her attention to the final remnants of her salad.

Alex was sure she would've remembered him – tall, broad shouldered and slim hipped, with thick dark hair and warm brown eyes, he was certainly an attractive man. And he was polite, sounded well educated, and was smiling at her with unmistakeable interest. Yes, she would certainly have remembered had she met him before.

Quickly finishing her lunch, she gave the stranger a fragment of a smile before gathering her belongings and heading out onto Marylebone High Street. Wandering slowly towards Bond Street tube station, she found herself thinking about the stranger and about her complete lack of response to him. He was exactly her type. Or at least, he was the type she'd have gone for back in her old life, back in the future. So why hadn't she returned any of his attentions? Why had she scampered away without even a backward glance?

Alex hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. When she'd first arrived in this world, she'd decided to make the most of her time here, to have a little fun while she worked out whatever she had to do to get back to 2008. Do the things she couldn't do back home, where she had the responsibilities of being a single working mum hanging around her neck. She'd been on the verge of propositioning Danny Moore – had gone some way beyond that with the red-braced yuppie soon after. But there hadn't been anyone else since then. She'd had offers, several in fact, but none had appealed. So she'd politely declined, opting instead to concentrate on her job and finding the new trigger back home.

So the man in the sandwich bar was just the latest in a string of presentable men who she'd failed to look twice at. It wasn't as though she'd lost her desire – it was just that she hadn't met any man who she thought would do a better job of satisfying her than she could manage herself. And if the images dancing through her head as she bucked beneath her own hands were of a tall, solid, rough-looking man with a terrible taste in neckwear and the most amazing, changeable eyes, well that didn't mean anything, really. A girl had to use whatever was to hand. So to speak.

Pushing through the crowds in the underground, Alex was lucky enough to find a seat on the Central Line train. She stared at the vacant faces of the tourists and commuters opposite, and allowed her mind to wander back to the question of the men in her life. The lack of men in her life.

She'd been so relieved when Gene had come clean with her, told her about his plan for Supermac. Thank god she didn't have to fight against him any more, that they were on the same side. She'd grown so much closer to him over these last few months, had come to rely on him, take strength from his boundless energy and commitment. The feeling she'd had when she'd thought he crossed the line, put himself in Mac's pocket – she'd been dismayed, desolate, more lonely than she could remember. She desperately wanted to be wrong.

She'd tried to get him to tell her the truth, to let her in on his secrets. Standing there in his office, so close she could smell him, that familiar, metallic smokiness, and had pleaded, begging for his help. She'd stared up, unblinking, and for a moment she'd been lost, adrift in his gaze, and she'd been so sure he was about to close the gap between them, press his lips against hers, and she hadn't done anything to stop him.

He hadn't done it, though. He'd swigged his scotch and turned his back on her. And then later, he'd called her on it. Given her the chance to back down gracefully – pretend she'd been playing him, using tactics to get what she wanted – but then, when she'd taken hold of the lifeline, he'd told her that he didn't believe her. "Don't underestimate me, Bolls," he'd growled, then walked out on her again.

The train doors opened at her stop. Blinking, she rose from her seat and made her way up the escalators, showing her ticket at the barriers, turning to head towards Fenchurch East. Her head was suddenly buzzing, chaotic, and she needed to find order. Walking along the long corridor to the squad room, she paused outside the double doors, peering through. She could make him out, slouched in his office, feet on his desk. Something dislodged in her stomach, and she couldn't deny it any more.

But he'd turned away from her more times than she could count. What the hell was she going to do now?

**I thought I'd lost you**

Gene Hunt looked up from his copy of the Racing Post, glaring across the squad room, through the toughened glass in the double doors. His senses hadn't let him down – there she was, dithering in the corridor, uncharacteristically uncertain. He watched as she seemed to square her shoulders before pushing through and taking a seat at her desk. He sighed and dropped the paper on the desk.

How the hell was he going to get through this? How was he going to deal with Supermac, keep his team together, keep himself together? It seemed impossible.

He'd wanted to keep her out of this whole mess. Mack was a dangerous man, more dangerous than she realised, and all his instincts were telling him to protect her, to keep her out of Mack's way. But she'd blundered in anyway, making demands, putting herself at risk, all in that infuriating way that of hers, and he'd had to rethink everything.

He hated how she played him. Tried to play him. Did she know how close he'd come to giving in? She'd sidled up to him, invading his territory, stealing his air, begging him to let her in. He wanted to believe the truth in her eyes, the affection and the longing, and as his gaze had strayed across her face, across her lips, it'd taken every ounce of his self control to stop himself from taking what she seemed to be offering. Of course he wanted her, he'd wanted her so long he couldn't remember what it was like to wake up without that gnawing ache, but lately he'd begun to admit that there was more than just the physical need. Her life was entangled with his and he was becoming increasingly aware that whatever she was offering him, it would never be enough.

He rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. He wanted her to be straight with him, honest, but she kept holding back. No matter how much time they spent together, how many hours they spent drinking Luigi's pinot rat's piss, she still held back, and it killed him. But then a couple of days ago, when he finally couldn't take her righteous anger any more and he'd told her why he'd joined that bloody awful idiot boys' club, she'd surprised him. He hadn't thought he could still be surprised. And he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it since.

Patting his jacket pocket, he found his lighter and lit a cigarette. She was fiddling with her hair, trying to push it back behind her ear but it kept falling forwards, brushing across her cheek. He missed the curls. He thought she looked beautiful.

"I thought I'd lost you." He closed his eyes, thinking about those words, the look on her face as she said them. She thought she'd lost him. Fuck. He must have missed the bit where she had him.

Smoke curled lazily through his office, obscuring his view of her desk, and he waved it away. She was bent over a file, scribbling something in a margin, doing everything in her usual intent, deliberate manner, leaving nothing to chance. He just didn't know what to think any more.

Stubbing his cigarette out with unnecessary force, Gene turned in his chair so he could no longer see her through his window. He hated the way she made him feel, all the insecurity, all the stupid soppiness. But, and this was the thing, he wouldn't change it, didn't wish she'd never catapulted into his office, into his life. Because there was something she did that no one else had managed since Tyler had gone and got himself killed. She made him feel alive. With her on his team, he looked forward to coming to work in the morning, took pride in doing a good job. She brought out the best in him, like Sam had done before her. And, yes, he supposed the endless legs didn't hurt, either.

It could never work between them. She might finally have conceded to physical attraction between them – well, she would eventually, she was only human – but it just wasn't enough. Grimacing, he poured himself a shot of scotch and downed it. Since when had he needed anything more than a good seeing to from any woman? Shook his head. Apparently, since her.

He glanced up at the sound of the door being opened. "Don't you ever knock?"

"Sorry Guv." She had a file in her hand and a question in her eye. "This blagger I went to see this morning? I know he's alibied out of actually committing the burglaries but I can't believe he's completely innocent. Look at this…"

She launched into yet another theory linking the blagger and the burglaries that might, just might, hold water. To be honest, he tuned out of most of it, trusting her judgement, preferring to sneak glances at her profile, her elegant cheekbones and the bump on the bridge of her nose. He became aware that she was looking at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for something. "Er – yes. Right. Whatever you think."

She gave him an odd look before nodding. "Okay, I'll bring him in." Turning to leave, she lingered as she reached the door. "Um, Guv?"

"Yes?"

"Oh. Erm. Nothing." And she slipped away, closing the door behind her.

**Who do you think I am, the Milk Tray man?**

It'd been a bloody awful couple of days. Some poor kid had been the innocent victim of a psychopath's head games. Mack had made good on his threat about being against him if he wasn't for him. And to cap it off, he'd felt like he was on the wrong side of every conversation with Alex.

He sighed, draining the last of the champagne from the bottle. He'd dispatched the rest of the team back home, rather worse for wear despite it not yet being midday, but was reluctant to head off himself. He didn't want to put too much difference between him and the station just yet. Not quite ready to break out the A to Z of flaming Plymouth.

Only a couple of days ago he'd finally begun to think he could have it all. Take on Supermac, expose the corruption, maybe even win over Alex. Now? Not so sure. He hadn't given up but he felt tired, exhausted by the constant fighting, and hated himself for even thinking about giving up.

Someone had left her a rose. Who the hell would do that? How could she have imagined that it might be him? He wanted to give her roses, of course he did. Roses and chocolates and diamonds and the moon and the stars. Just because he hadn't, didn't mean he took too kindly to the idea that someone else had. That somebody else could be playing at being the bloody Milk Tray man.

He played with the empty bottle, shifting it slowly from side to side, his lips stuck out in a thoughtful frown. Why shouldn't someone else send her roses? Despite his hopes, he didn't have any claims on her. And unless he played his average-at-best hand pretty cannily, he'd soon find himself stuck in Plymouth and then she'd be out of his life for good.

Could he really leave it like this? Exiled by Mack, leaving London with his tail between his legs, never telling her what he thought, never finding out if he had a chance? Sod it. Time was running out and he had nothing left to lose. One way or another, he'd get an answer today.

He threw a handful of notes on the table and shouted a goodbye at Luigi before reaching over the bar to grab another bottle. He turned back to head up the stairs to her flat.

**It's not a date, Bolly**

She knew he'd only been so curt because Mack was approaching. It's not like she'd thought it was a date. And it wasn't completely crazy to have asked him if he'd left the rose. It wasn't as though anyone else in CID was a more likely candidate.

Alex meandered through her flat, a warm glass of flat champagne dangling from her fingers. It was fine. A bit embarrassing, maybe, but she'd done worse since she'd arrived here. But, she acknowledged, things were different now. She felt differently, about Gene, about 1982. And she wanted to get back to that understanding they'd shared a few day ago, before they'd had to deal with that horrible anti-cruelty campaign.

She started slightly at the sound of a rasp on her door. Opening it cautiously, her stomach lurched at the sight of him, leaning against the frame, a fresh bottle of cold champagne in his hand. She waved him through and closed the door carefully behind him. Staring at this back as he walked towards the small sitting area, Alex wondered whether she'd have the courage to take what she wanted from him. Wondered whether he'd be willing to give it to her.

**Losing it, finding it**

He was pouring the champagne as she reached him, passing her a glass before taking a slug of his own. "I thought we'd finished celebrating?" she asked as she put the glass to her lips.

He looked at her then, really looked, and his guts tightened at what he saw. He put his glass down on the counter and moved closer, taking hers from her fingers and setting it next to his. Nothing else mattered. Not the shit with Supermac, not the bloody transfer, nothing but her, being with her, showing her everything that he'd concealed for so long. Taking what was his in return.

She couldn't look away, his gaze piercing her, holding her still as he advanced ever closer. His hand reached up to cup her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek, and she trembled as she felt him growl her name, move his hand to the back of her head. He tangled his fingers in her hair, angling her head up, back, to meet his lips as they lowered to hers. Finally joined, she sighed into his mouth, reaching up to pull him closer. This was where she belonged. Whatever came their way now, they'd fight it together.


End file.
